


Mantra

by Yatzstar



Series: The Cat With the Dragon's Voice [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Gen, Hints of Shipping, Oneshot, Solstheim, Visions in dreams, for now, it's mostly subtext so I'm not gonna tag it, until I think up more material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzstar/pseuds/Yatzstar
Summary: Even the Dragonborn must dream. But what happens when someone takes notice? For out of all the doorways to the mind, the door to dreams is often kept haphazardly flung open. Beware what may enter it.





	Mantra

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, this was all written well after midnight and in one sitting, but I'm sure y'all are used to that by now. Anyway I didn't proofread at all, so apologies for any errors.

_Here, in my temple…_

The words come drifting through the dream, so faint and faraway that Ma’joraa can scarcely be sure she has heard them. Fog swirls about her, dark upon dark, and briefly she wonders if this is the Void, the domain of the Dread Father himself.

_Here, in my shrine…_

The Khajiit wears no form of flesh in the dream, but the smallest of shudders passes through her nonetheless. Who is speaking? Is it Daedra? Aedra? Or something else entirely?

_That you have forgotten…_

The dragon stirs within her, restless, wary at this voice that is both terribly familiar and terribly unknown. Though she cannot be certain, Ma’joraa feels somehow that the presence has grown nearer.

_Here do you toil…_

Her thoughts are sluggish, as is often the case in dreaming. Her soul grows impatient with the slowness however, and _Thu’um_ rises in her throat.

_That you might remember…_

Her mouth opens, but no words come forth. _Remember what?_ She longs to ask, but her Voice is stifled.

_What faithless minds have spoken…_

The soul of the _dov_ snarls within her, and she remembers what Paarthurnax has told her: _paar suleykh ko sosa._ The will to power is in her blood. Does the dragon within feel a challenge?

_Far from yourself…_

Though still wary, she cannot help but admit that the voice is correct—here in the dream, she is as far from herself as the Divines are from Mundus.

_I grow ever nearer to you…_

A shudder passes through her, her philosophical musings forgotten as she realizes that the voice is indeed distinctly _closer_ now.

_Your eyes once were blinded…_

The voice is all around her now, pressing in, and still she cannot perceive its owner. Her claws unsheathe, the trapped _Thu’um_ boiling in her throat. She is not alone.

_Now, through me, do you see…_

Her claws strain almost painfully from her fingertips, as with the hideous sensation of _otherness,_ large hands snake around the sides of her head to cover her eyes. Though the dream is dark enough to prevent all sight even normally, the darkness now is deeper still.

_Your hands once were idle…_

She does not need to breathe in the dream, but if she did, her breathes would have been trapped like the _Thu’um_ in her throat as the hands move to cover her own, heedless of her needle-like claws.

_Now, through them, do I speak…_

Paralyzed, her eyes and hands covered, her Voice silenced, she waits for something—a sword driving between her ribs, a dagger in her back, _anything_ would be better than the hideous sensation of helplessness that now consumes her.

_And when the world shall listen…_

The voice continues, seemingly oblivious to her, though it presses in around her like a thick, dark blanket. Its owner is very near, but it is the uncertainty of _how_ near that terrifies her.

_And when the world shall see…_

The hands over her eyes are removed, but her relief is quickly replaced by confusion, for she finds that she is walking, her feet treading the blackness of the dream without stumbling.

_And when the world remembers…_

The _Thu’um_ beats wildly like a caged bird in her throat as she feels the brush of _breath_ upon her neck. The voice no longer comes from all around her, from everywhere and nowhere at once, but now has an origin. And it is at her back, speaking low directly into her ear, sending a shudder down her spine.

_“That world will cease to be.”_

* * *

 

“Ma’joraa!”

With a sudden lurch, the dream shatters, plunging Ma’joraa into the waking world like icy water dashed in her face. Her _Thu’um_ is suddenly released in a confused jumble.

_“Faas…Toor Dah!”_

Fortunately, no one is standing in front of her to be impacted by the mess that is _fear-inferno-push_ as it spills from her lips. Then she stumbles, for she has realized the strange pressure in her neck.

“Listener, what force has taken you?” Lucien demands, withdrawing his spectral hand from where he has passed it through the back of her neck to seize her spine in a desperate attempt to stop her forward motion.

Ma’joraa blinks in confusion, her eyes dilating to take in the dark of the early morning. Before her stretches the geyser fields of Eastmarch, clouds of steam only just visible in the grey light of dawn. In the distance, the Velothi Mountains rise black to scrape the sky.

It takes her several moments to put the pieces together, and as she does, Lucien comes around to face her, the confusion on his ghostly features mirroring her own. Finally, she remembers that her hands are her own now, and begins to sign.

 _What happened?_ She asks, though she knows the Speaker will have no answer.

“I am wondering the same,” Lucien replies. “You seemed to be sleeping peacefully, until you suddenly got up, and began walking in a straight line to the northeast. It is a wonder you did not stumble, for you carried no light. We must be nearly two miles from camp now.”

The events of the dream are coming back to her now. Though she could not say how, a name springs unbidden to her mind, and brief images of an ash-covered land.

As they begin the long walk back to camp, Ma’joraa turns to Lucien and signs, _what do you know of a place called Solstheim?_

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be it for Ma'joraa's Dragonborn adventures for now, as I haven't thought up any new material yet. I'm going to leave it incomplete on the off-chance I do come up with something, because I do actually want to continue this at some point, but for now it will most likely remain a oneshot.
> 
> On a lighter note, I do admit that I take Miraak slightly less seriously after having played Fallout 4, and hearing his exact voice (albeit with an American accent) drunkenly mumbling 'mMiSsIoNn aCcomPlisHed!'
> 
> Gotta love Peter Jessop.


End file.
